


The one where miracles happen

by Follevolo



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Gallavich, M/M, ianxmickey - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 09:20:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1545677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Follevolo/pseuds/Follevolo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and I know it's not likely to happen, but I wanna be happy and positive and so this is what you get today. And what you get today is a big bag full of fluffiness and fucking rainbows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The one where miracles happen

Fuck. Ian! Jesus Christ, you’re up! Mickey doesn’t want to sound so surprised, but he is, more than surprised, actually, quite shocked, not to say ecstatic. Ian is in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in his hands. He is still in his pajamas, his bare feet sending shivers through all his body; he doesn’t know if it’s for the cold floor or the anxiety of being so far from the bed.

Mickey smiles so bright it’s almost heartbreaking. He looks so fucking happy, just to see him drinking coffee in his kitchen. He makes Ian uncomfortable, but he doesn’t say that. He doesn’t say anything really, which ruins the magic just a little. But he does get closer to Mickey, handing him the cup of coffee with an interrogative look on his face. Mickey stares at him like he is a wild abandoned cat, beautiful and unpredictable. He doesn’t want to scare him off, so he forces himself to pretend to be cool and natural and not surprised at all. He takes a sip of coffee and puts the cup back in Ian’s hands with an encouraging nod.

So, what are we doing today? Wanna crash at your place? They would like to see you, you know. Ian’s eyes widen, terrorized. No, maybe it’s better we stay here, uh? Let’s watch a movie, you choose. No, fuck. I choose. Mickey bits his bottom lip, frustrated with himself. He is treating him like he’s sick, and that would make things worse, he knows that. But he is sick. Fuck.

I choose. Ian’s voice is low and sad, but he speaks and that’s fucking everything right now. Ok, firecrotch, you choose. Whatever you want. Do you want pancakes, uh? I’ll make you the best fucking breakfast you have ever eaten. Pancakes and juice and eggs and toasts, Cinderella. What do you say?. Fuck it, Mickey thinks, he can’t pretend this isn’t a miracle. It’s been twenty fucking days and now he’s standing there right in front of him, he is alive, he is staring at him and he is not crying and this is a miracle, so he’ll fucking give him the world in return.

Ian is still staring at him, eyes big under his long eyelashes. He’s just a foot away from him, but it looks way too much space to Mickey. He sees his hands hold tight around the cup, like it’s the only thing that makes him hold himself together. Mickey sighs. He wants to be that cup. Can I be that cup? He knows how absolutely pathetic that is, but he’s got nothing to lose. And maybe it’s his clear, surrendered voice, or his expression of tired acceptance, dark, heavy signs under his pale blue eyes. Can I be that cup? Maybe it’s the question itself, his genuine willing humiliation. But Ian comes back. Mickey sees it in his eyes before he even moves, leaving the cup on the table and making that final step into Mickey’s harms. He hugs him tight, cuddles him in his grip, rests his head on his, feels him cry lightly, just a little.

I wanna see The Notebook.

Fuck no, man. I don’t care how much I’m fucking willing to give you the world in this moment and thank you from the bottom of my heart for being right where you are, I’ll do anything else, I’ll suck you up, I’ll shower you, I will fucking cuddle you, anything really but The Notebook is not on the table, I can’t do The Notebook.

Why not?

You know why.

I don’t have Alzheimer, I’m just bipolar, man.

Fuck you, it’s the same shit, you leave me for weeks and I feel like a fucking waste of space and I hate it and we are not watching The Notebook and we are fucking not arguing now, take off your clothes and go to bed.

But I fucking got up now after three weeks…

Good point. Take off your clothes right here, then. Now.

Have you ever asked me this in the last three weeks? Cos I think it might have worked.

Already tried. You weren’t even listening. I told you everything I could possibly tell you to get you up. Nothing.

Even the L word?

Even the L word.

Fuck, I missed it.

I love you, idiot. Clothes. Now.


End file.
